Chapter 12 | Part 4

The beggar appeared from nowhere.

One moment Maris was alone against the wall; the next, an old man was standing in front of her, hand extended, eyes rheumy and unfocused. He smelled of cheap wine and unwashed clothes. His beard was matted. His fingers trembled with the palsy of age or drink or both.

“Coin for the unfortunate?” His voice was raspy, practiced, the professional plea of someone who’d been asking for years.

Maris reached for her belt pouch. She didn’t have much—seers rarely did—but she had enough to share. “Here. For food, not drink.”

The beggar’s fingers closed around the copper. His hand stopped trembling.

His eyes snapped into focus.

“The inn called The Wanderer’s Rest,” he said. His voice had changed—flatter, more distant, as if he were reading from a script he couldn’t quite see. “Ask for Xandor. Tell him what you saw.”

Maris froze. “What?”

“The drowning.” The beggar’s eyes were looking through her now, fixed on something far away. “The boat. The black water. The hand that slipped under. You saw it. You were meant to.”

Her heart was hammering. The stable image flickered through her mind—boat, water, hand—and for a moment, she felt the vision pulling at her again, threatening to drag her under.

“How do you know about that?” she whispered.

“Find Xandor. Tell him what you saw. He’s been waiting for someone like you.” The beggar’s voice was utterly flat now, empty of the wheedling tone he’d used before. “Something is calling. Something is broadcasting. And you’re one of the few who can hear.”

“Who sent you? Who told you—”

The beggar blinked.

The focus left his eyes. His hand resumed its trembling. He looked down at the copper coin in his palm as if he’d never seen it before.

“Bless you, ma’am,” he said in his normal voice. “May the light find you kindly.” He wandered off, weaving slightly, already forgetting her face.

Maris watched him go.

Her hands were shaking. Her headache had returned with full force, spiking behind her eyes like a physical assault. The pull in her chest—the one that had been leading her toward Riverhold—suddenly had a direction.

The Wanderer’s Rest. Xandor. Someone who had been waiting.

She’d seen conduits before. Once, in a village market, a child had grabbed her sleeve and spoken in a voice far too old for her small body, delivering a warning that had saved Maris’s life three days later. Once, in a fever dream, she’d been certain her dead grandmother was speaking through the healer who tended her. The voices used whoever was nearby, whoever was open, whoever’s mind didn’t resist the intrusion.

But this was different. More specific. More directed.

Something is calling. Something is broadcasting.

She thought of the stable image. The boat. The black water. The hand. If the visions were broadcasts—signals sent from somewhere, received by minds attuned to hear them—then she wasn’t seeing the future. She was seeing the present. Or the past. Something that was happening, had happened, would happen, somewhere she couldn’t reach.

And whatever was broadcasting wanted me to find Xandor.

She could walk away. She’d done it before—ignored the signs, followed her own path, pretended the universe wasn’t conspiring to push her in directions she didn’t choose. But ignoring visions always made them worse. Ignoring conduits—she’d never tried that.

She suspected the results would be unpleasant.

The inn called The Wanderer’s Rest. It had to be somewhere in Riverhold. Someone would know.

Maris pushed off from the wall and started walking. The pull in her chest had solidified, a steady tug pointing her forward with quiet insistence.

What am I walking into?

The question felt important. Also unanswerable.

Only one way to find out.

She found the inn three streets later. Its sign showed a traveler with a walking staff, feet bare, face turned toward a distant horizon. Warm light spilled from the windows. Voices rumbled from inside—conversation, not conflict.

Maris hesitated outside the door. The stable image played again, unbidden. Boat. Water. Hand.

Tell him what you saw.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

End of Chapter 12.4 —> 12.5: The Grass Where She Fell: The Choice